The Back Story

October 31, 2016

Alma
was sitting in the breezy shade of her palapa. She had agreed to sew a narrow
mola to cover a tear on my favourite skirt. While we waited, Maia and I decided
to walk the circumference of BBQ
Island. BBQ Island
is the ‘ultima’ island (last) in the Holandes Cays and Alma’s extended family
takes turns living on the pretty outpost—running a casual restaurant and beer
concession for cruisers and other tourists.

Alma sewing molas

Maia and I returned from our short walk just in time to see
Alma’s son Manuel rescue our dinghy—we hadn’t tied it up, thinking we would
only be a few steps away, but then the sweet island beckoned and our dinghy
took a runner for the reef.

Manuel, Maia, Alma and Alma's mum

After tying up our dinghy for us, Manuel plunked himself
down in a chair under the palapa and started to thumb through his phone. Alma asked if we wanted a
cold drink—they have a ‘machina’ that makes electricity and keeps them cold.
Knowing the only options were beer and a sweet strawberry pop, I asked for a
coco pipa—a drinking coconut. Like teens everywhere, who have been asked to climb
a tree and fetch a coconut after having just dived in warm tropical water to
rescue a dingy, Manuel rolled his eyes.

BBQ Island seen from the anchorage

I knew the look—it was the same as one I’d later see when I
suggested Maia might want to snorkel the gorgeous reef rather than watch bad
TV. Alma caught
my eye and we both laughed. This was why she and Manuel were on BBQ Island.
Her three younger kids were on course in life—but Manuel, who never identified
with the Guna culture (to the point where he’s refused to learn his family’s
first language), also wasn’t thriving in the Spanish culture. He hadn’t made it
through high school in Panama City
before getting kicked out for fighting.

So Alma
was embracing tradition by bringing him back to their land. Despite not being
the most traditional Guna woman—Alma finds the
mola (literally ‘clothes of the people’) too fussy for daily wear and has sent
all her kids to Panama City
for schooling and hopefully university. But now she was living in a thatched
hut—a couple days’ cayuca ride from the nearest city and a half day’s paddle
from her parents. Manuel, she hoped, would find his path on the island.

the daughters of our favourite fisherman

Most of us travel with the hope of encountering these small
moments of connection: sitting under a thatched roof, with a woman from one of
the world’s last remaining traditionally-living indigenous cultures, talking
about the challenges of parenting in a rapidly changing world.

In truth, it was both precious and surreal. It’s easy to see
people as little more than the colourful characters who make our travel photos
look exotic. But with Alma
we were lucky enough to share a second language (bad Spanish) and a universal
moment of parenting angst. From there we got a window into the Guna culture.

the veggie boat--everything was $1 a pound

So once again we shifted our cruising plans. Rather than
exploring more islands we stayed in the Holandes. Each day we’d snorkel a new
section of the reef. Cayucas would stop by bringing lobster, conch, vegetables
or molas. We’d buy from the same fishermen each day and then head in to see
Alma and Manuel and play volleyball, swim, share snacks or just sit in the
breezy shade and talk about life.

The Guna survived culturally intact and unconquered by
adapting to the changing world, never giving up their core identity and by
being a mean shot with a poisoned arrow. They number about 50,000 people—spread
over 250 small islands and several mainland settlements. The women tend to only
speak the Guna language while the men often learn Spanish in school.

Our visitor showing the traditional mola outfit. Many women still wear it daily while some just save it for celebrations

Local women visiting the boat--they only spoke enough Spanish to talk about molas. They really are this short btw, Guna people are the second shortest indigenous group in the world

Like many indigenous and island cultures the Guna have the
most to lose with climate change: Their reefs, which provide the lobster which
make up a good part of their income, are showing stress from warming water and
overfishing. The islands are barely above sea level, and though they are out of
the hurricane zone, they have been subject to vicious storms, flooding and
erosion.

On our last night off of BBQ Island Maia, Evan and I talked
about what might become of Alma, Manuel and their family. Under the bright
stars I watched as the ‘machina’ shut off and the island’s three lights went
out. Manuel can’t wait for his time on the island to be done so he can return
to his friends in the city. Alma
hopes that by showing him something different she’ll plant the seeds that will
allow him to survive and thrive in the world he inherits.

I hope that both she and I have gambled the right way with
our children.

October 22, 2016

The clip-clop of our horse’s hooves, as they echoed off the cobbles
of the unlit street, were almost enough to transport us back one hundred years—to
a time when it would be normal to be transported by carriage on a street with
no lights. In our case, there was a problem with the electricity, or the government,
or both.

The reason half of the old-town was shrouded in darkness was
lost between Spanish and English. But the fact remained, traveling by
candlelight smoothes out the seedy bits, which keep the town authentic, and
dims the veneer of tourism and gentrification, casting enough of a magical glow
to last the evening.

A night out at the Teatro Adolfo Mejia for the International Guitar Festival

Night in Cartagena
is filled with life. Storefronts we never notice during the day offer
everything from tourist trinkets and Cuban cigars, to high end fashion and
emerald jewellery, to discount groceries and hardware supplies. Our carriage
guide pointed out some of the most famous shops, some lit some not, as well as
historic buildings and squares.

Dancers in the squares around the town

We plodded past the home that once housed Garbriel Garcia
Marquez then later walked back to Plaza Fernandez de Madrid—one of the settings
from Love in the Time of Cholera—and watched as young couples strolled past,
stealing kisses in the shadows of the almond trees.

People watching is the prime activity in Cartagena at night. Dancers weave their way
into the city’s multicultural story by filling the street with folk dances, musicians
play concerts for audiences as small as two and even the food vendors are on
display—hawking their wares with the flair of an actor.

You can choose between fine dining or street food--arepas stuff with meat and egg cost about $1

For me, it’s the private moments that intrigue.
Catching a quiet smile between a new bride and her groom or watching another
couple, grey haired with years, dance an elegant salsa are enough blend the lines
between reality and imagination. Enough to make this place magic.

Cruising Notes

The anchorage is busy with ferry traffic but holds several dozen international cruising boats. There are also a good number of boats running charters between here and Panama. We were able to get updated San Blas charts from one boat.

October 15, 2016

We entered Bahia de Cartagena through Boca Grande. During
the exploring and conquering of the Americas, the Spanish impeded enemy
access to the harbour by laying down coral blocks just under the surface of the
wide entrance. If you didn’t know exactly where to go in, you’d rip the bottom
off your boat.

Maia's first palata in years--the fresh-fruit popsicles are a Latin American favourite

flowering balconies line the streets

Happily, Cartagena
now welcomes English speakers. We entered the bay with hulls intact and camera
in hand—ready to shoot photos of the famous statue of the Virgin and Child which
graces the inner bay. Oddly—the statue was missing. I wondered if the 60’ tall
monument was off for cleaning or repair, but we soon learned the Virgin had been
struck by lightning and had blown up.

fruit vendor in the old city

snacks of all types are available from hawkers

Our years in Latin American countries make this colourful
and chaotic city feel familiar. It’s a place where shanties abut glossy high
rises, yet everyone buys their breakfast arepa from the same street vendor and
needs to navigate the same sea-flooded street.

A hat vendor pedaling his wares ;)

Why I love this place is hard to define. It’s full of
unexpected moments: We wandered through the unmarked tunnels of Castillo San
Felipe and followed one steep corridor as it narrowed and shrank, growing humid
and close as it snaked downward. We considered turning back, but assumed the
tunnel must go somewhere—otherwise why would it be open to the public?
Eventually it leveled out—arriving at a t-junction which was partially flooded
and home to an aggressive looking iguana.

exploring the tunnels in San Felipe

There are daily rhythms in Latin
America which never fail to make me smile: bedlam on the streets,
a languid siesta, and a night that pulsates. Music everywhere, always…

taking a break at the top of the fort

Apparently if it weren't for this fort Colombians would be speaking English

Mostly it’s the sheer exuberance that makes me happy. The
new paint on old buildings is brighter, the flowers and fruit are bigger and
the hawkers are louder than in other places. Our cab was in a slow-motion car
accident complete with blaring horns and wildly gesticulating hands. Both drivers
got out and argued about the resulting dent in rapid-fire Spanish. Passersby
and witnesses joined in. With traffic backing up, the other driver offered ours
a fistful of cash—about $10 US. With a satisfied grin, our driver drove on to
our destination.

Our plan had been to only stop for a few days but with so
much to see, do (and eat) we may stretch our visit to 10 or 12 days.

October 11, 2016

It seems Iridium and blogger aren't playing nice and posts with photos are hard to read. So you'll have to imagine the fifteen-year-old sitting on the bow patiently pointing out pooping spotted Atlantic dolphins, or the pod of mamas and teenie tiny babies (they were common dolphins), or the lightning that lit up last night's ocean to a bright steal-white or even that five-mile swath of garbage soup.

Passages always feel like suspended time. We're not where we were; we're not where we're going. There's the sameness; day after day of sea and sky. Except neither the sea nor sky are the same one moment to the next. Moments at sea range from sublime, to frightening, to forgettable. But unlike sublime moments on land; say when you sea a mountain at sunrise or catch sight of your first wild grizzly, there's no simple way to give someone directions so they can experience the same thing. The infant dolphins that came at dusk yesterday, when the seas were mirrored and pink and the breeze was like warm breath on my neck, aren't something I can tell you how to find. I can barely describe how the mamas escorted their wee offspring into our bow waves and then gently pushed them back in place as the tiny torpedoes caught back eddies and awkwardly somersaulted out of the flow.
It seemed mean to laugh.

We read lots on passage and watch the ocean. Yesterday, when the first pieces of garbage floated past, I recalled how 20-years-ago on little Ceilydh we'd alter our course to go inspect anything we found floating at sea. It so clearly didn't belong there--we'd check to see if it was a message in a bottle, lost cargo or wreckage. Now it's different. The first time we came across a garbage gyre I assumed it was flotsam and jetsam from a wrecked ship. It's so incongruous to be in the middle of the ocean and see debris across the horizon. Most of it's so small it's unrecognizable--but always there's flipflops, water bottles and coloured bits plastic that caught some consumer's eye. If it's calm, and I can look down into the water, I can see bits of plastic film. I call it soup because it's not a solid mass. It's the individual pieces of garbage caught by a current, swirled together and broken up by the power of the ocean. If we took a net and scooped up all the rubbish from yesterday's patch we could have collected enough plastic to fill our boat.

The miles are going slowly this passage. It's not just the light winds--the 460 miles are loaded with meaning. This is our last Atlantic passage. In the San Blas islands we'll cross little Ceilydh's long-ago wake. Soon enough we'll no longer be exploring, but revisiting. We'll have done more than turn the corner for home, we'll be headed home.

And so we savour sailing into the sunsets as we make our final purely westward miles.
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At 11/10/2016 3:30 PM (utc) our position was 11°34.76'N 074°43.60'W

October 10, 2016

We're sailing through plastic stew. The first time this happened we thought we'd come across debris from a wreck. But hours later we understood: currents concentrate the garbage and the ocean's power renders it unrecognizable. People ask if I'm ever afraid out here. This scares me.

About Me

Our family of three (+ feline) just finished sailing around the world. This blog contains the story of our travels and experiences, thoughts about the world, and on Maia's blog you'll also find the occasional rant.